My Kingdom
by ThornDoesn'tCut PreciousFlower
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider, and you think you fell for an angel. Or a human. Or something. Probably a god, you muse. But you are not the only one to fall into his trap.


CHAPTER ONE: THEY HAVE NAMES

Part One: The Space is Windy, you Dork

-Begin-

We Are the Kingdom

Hey, you. Yes you. Would you like to hear a story?

It's a story of a kingdom, the kingdom being a city.

It's about a story of the people; the people are not of the kingdom,

They are the city.

Pretty interesting, don't you agree?

So, do you want to hear a story?

The story of their kingdom?

-Began-

Her name is Jade, Jade Harley. Her family has been brutally murdered in the name of hope: anarchy is approaching the underworld and now Hell is going through a new route, one where hierarchy has no place to stay. Jade never agreed with the ways her world worked, but she didn't exactly agree with how the other side plays their cards either. It's crude.

The universe is crude.

The green eyed royal demon knows that the universe is crude because her bloodline wills it. But that isn't really important right now so you chuck that thought aside.

Her name is Jade, Jade Harley. Her people are against her and claws at her throne—they want to take everything away from her. Her riches, her powers, her blood; normally, she wouldn't mind much, but right now, now—

They are crossing a line where no one should have gone. Their feet are inches away from the line of morals, the line of distinct reality and brash serenity. She normally wouldn't mind it, usually wouldn't care what they do to her: beat her, cook her up, eat her flesh, take her soul. But now that they crossed the line, she could no longer accept what fate has offered her.

She could no longer accept any offer of peace. It was war. War is now.

And there were nobody who could stop it—all the people that could were murdered.

Her eyes flash a lime green shade, lighting up the sky. No more peace, no more peace, she chants in her mind. Time has given up on her, her seer of light have been broken. The heir of breath no longer breathes in her, no longer listens. She is in Hell, forsaken by god. No one will listen.

The natural darkness emitting from the sky brightened up as the lesser demons scrambled away from their place. They weren't strong enough to be safe; no one was strong enough to be safe. Not even Jade Harley, the one and only.

Demons were cursing at her as she hung on the stick, arms and legs tired around it in metal. Yes, the other demons were right when they said she wouldn't be able to escape it by her lacking muscles; no, they were wrong when they said she couldn't escape, not even if she wanted to. Right now, she wanted to escape and right now she was. The metal laid there in plain sight, no signs of struggle seen. And yet, Jade, the little teen, was out of her bondage. With a foot on top of the spiked tip of the stick, she bore an expression of a nonchalant composure.

The demons that stayed thinking that they would be able to put her in her place froze: they would not be able to put her in her place. Not now and not ever; for she, Jade Harley, had no place here. With that realization, they fled. Their fleeing legs could not withstand her attack.

One moment, in a place near her reaping, there was a demon of six feet and two inches tall. He was broad, very defined in features, and laughed at the girl. But then she began to do magic tricks, ones that those, the lesser demons, would never be able to fathom of witnessing. There was a reason why she had a higher standing than most demons, he realized—it was because she was powerful.

That was all the more reason why she didn't belong in Hell; all the more reason to ban her from her hometown. Cracking his head to the side, he opened his mouth to tell his friends of his newfound knowledge, but as his head turned he witnessed her powers go on a rampant.

Bright lime green, in a circular ball, was around on his friend's left shoulder. It was small, not very wide or noticeable, but enough so to make a difference when it was gone. When the green faded away, so did everything it touched. Clothes, skin, blood, tissues, cells—they were all gone, like they weren't there in the first place. It was sickening.

Jade Harley was not a demon, he decided.

And he was right. Jade Harley was a different monster blessed in the powers of god: she was a mortal. A mortal that was born and raised in Hell, blessed in the life of immortality.

This has never happened before, the demon thinks. She is destroying the underworld, not even knowing what she was doing. This was probably their plan to crush hell and its people: setting up a marriage twenty thousand years ago, letting events unfold, letting the lesser demons try to rise in power by eating those more powerful than them, wronging the girl who has a shared ancestry with the humans, and then unleashing her dormant power.

Very, very clever. Very clever indeed, the demon thinks to himself.

Whoever orchestrated these events was a puppeteer worth being used by; the old demon thinks as the lime green light strangles him.

Let the show go on.

* * *

><p>The show goes on; goes on until it is finished, the final act drawn to a conclusion.<p>

Jade's eyes dim dramatically, now more susceptible to the world down here. The asthma rising from beneath Hell's ground rise up in a pitch black color. Like smoke, it goes up into the air, making it very difficult for her to breathe. She was, err, not a demon, but nonetheless she was born in the demon world.

She closed her eyes and kneeled down on the down, closer to the black air that rises. The air around her swooned towards her in a way of pity—yes, the air pitied her but it still had a job to do. The air doesn't usually come out of the depths of Hell very often, but when it does it has a distinct job to complete: get rid of the bodies.

Get rid of the bodies. The bodies that Jade destroyed. Or, somewhat destroyed, she thinks as she opens her eyes to see the mess she created.

A pang of guilt crawled up in her system, trying to settle down in fury and in rage. But she had no more left. No more, no more. The rage had subsided when she had gotten out of control. Looking at her hands, she whimpers. She never wanted to be a monster.

She never wished to kill.

Maybe that was why she was different from her family members, maybe that was why nobody ever thought that she was a true demon. But now, looking at the mess of limp bodies—probably close to eighty thousand dead bodies—she realizes something significant about her journey, something that she should have realized long ago, long, long ago: she is worse than a demon.

Her name was Jade, Jade Harley. And she had just completed her first assignment. She didn't know that it was her assignment to finish, though. She didn't know that with this end, her journey was just beginning.

In fact, she still thought of herself as a demon—a little on the dark side, but who cares. Her mother would always nag at her for not eating her meals properly; her father always looked disappointed in her for not killing the enemy. Her brothers always ignored her. Her sisters always ignored her. Jade wasn't pretty, not really beautiful. She looked more human than the others, but she knew for a fact that she wasn't human.

Humans can't live in Hell. The second they come, they die. It's some unwritten rule for them: only the dead may come into the Underworld, the dead or the strong—excluding the angels. Ah, angels. She didn't want to think about them right now. They were confusing little snobs; she didn't really like them. Besides, they would be here, not in person of course, but they would be here. They would see her mess and think of her as an ally or some absurd thing like that. They would try to convince her to do things for them, to do their bidding. But Jae Harley was no fool; she would see through their lies.

Angels were fickle beings. All they really want to do is destroy everything. Unlike demons, they think that they are some higher power—which, now that she thinks about it, they are some other worldly power. Her ancestors were angels. A long, long time ago they were beautiful angels. But the darkness grabbed them when they were shinning at their brightest, when they were up too high. Shot down past earth, they were forced to live in Hell.

Her ancestors made use of their predicament so she should too. It wasn't every day that one would be free of all of their responsibilities for the rest of eternity, being labeled as a complete and utter traitor. But it's not like any of the other demons would understand her. Nobody would. They wouldn't understand how feeding made her sick, or how killing made her want to commit suicide. Every life was important, don't they know? No, they don't. They don't know.

As soon as the angels catch word onto what she did, the other demons in the other districts would as well. In Hell, there are four districts, four different levels of families. She says families loosely.

But now, thinking about her district, she would be found out much sooner than she'd like. Her district that her family had ruled had way more than eighty thousand demons. They were many more—probably about ten times that amount. No way in hell—pun intended—would she be able to fight all of them at once. They would go after her for betraying them, but it wouldn't be fair because they went after her first, but then again they wouldn't see it how she does. They never do. Nobody ever does and she is sick and tired of them not listening to her!

Standing up straight, she walked over to her castle. Maybe then they would listen to her if she seems more professional. Plus, she would get cleaner air. Ahh, clean air did sound good to her right now.

As she walked, the asthma crawled into the dead bodies, eating them. Whenever there is a mass genocide or something of the likes the air purifies them, something angels usually do when they kill demons. But an angel didn't kill these demons, it was Jade. She clearly wasn't an angel.

As she walked, bodies became more apparent. Oh my, she inwardly groaned. There were more bodies than she thought. Everywhere she stepped, everywhere she looked she would see a limb of a demon lacking blood and bones. Eww, she didn't want to look at the bodies; they were really gross looking and deformed. Eww, eww, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!

She closed her eyes and walked over to her castle. Once there, she didn't dare open her eyes. She knew what she smelt.

An angel.

Her name is Jade, Jade Harley. And she is being stared at by an unwelcoming angel. Voice rough with a touch of innocence, the voice said,

"I am Jake, Jake English."

* * *

><p>-Dry-<p>

Rain, rain—go away. Rain, rain, leave us be—leave us be to every drop of rain that falls, we lose a little of ourselves.

Rain, rain, drown our thought—we saw what happened when we were caught.

And then the wind blew us away, and then the rain blew us away.

-Wet-

His name is John, John Egbert. He lives a pretty average life. In Hell. Literally. Don't judge on that, though, because he seriously lives a very mundane life. Wake up, get ready, go to work, come home, and go to sleep, and then repeat. He is a drone to society; he is just another body out there in the mass of demon society.

Except he's not. John Egbert is not just another demon in society. In fact, he isn't even a demon. He is, well, he doesn't really know what exactly he is, but he is sure that it is something that his peers shouldn't find out. Hell, he shouldn't even find out what he is because of very distinct reasons: his family history. Yeah, his family history is pretty screwed up and confusing and he didn't want to think about it right now. Sucks for John. He will talk about it.

Or, more truthfully, he was going to hear about it. Hear about it right now.

Sluggishly he pulled his bag over his shoulder. John was tired, very tired—he stayed after hours to finish up the job that his boss didn't, knowing very well that if something went wrong in the business that he would be the first one to get laid off. Closing his eyes, he kissed his poster of his man crush, Nicolas Cage (a human), and then slowly walked over to his apartment door. Hopefully today will be a good day, a day where he will make someone happy. Maybe prank them into smiling. Yeah.

"I am so not a demon," he laughed.

And he was right. But the media didn't know what was right and what was wrong. In a sudden flash, his laptop was out of sleep mode, now on. This usually happens when the government has something important to tell the general public; they turn on every electronic—TV, computer, laptop, radio, anything really—and then proceed to say the announcement. In this case, the announcement was something to do with the raging Civil War he didn't want to be placed in. Yeah, that would suck big time. But at least he only owns one electronic; just imagine a demon, having average electronics—a TV, laptop, a tablet, a phone, and maybe a radio if they were old enough to remember what the heck it is—and then all of them going off at the same time, at the same obnoxious volume, and saying the same damn things.

"We interrupt you for a very important message. This is not an update of the War; this is an update on Terrorism. The family of Harleys has been murdered and eaten by the Lessers."

He sighed. Of course this wasn't an update of the war (He was being sarcastic)! Especially saying "Lessers". Saying that pisses off the lesser demons.

"All of them are dead—all but their oldest daughter, Jade Harley. She then went on a rampage and murdered her whole district, and some. We have yet to find her. Be on the lookout. If you see her, do not engage in any acts of violence. I REPEAT: DO NOT ENGAGE IN ANY ACTS OF VIOLENCE. Ms. Harley is an A class offender and will be sentenced to death. Mr. Rou has more to say about this matter."

He went over to sit on his couch to listen in.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Jarce, it is a tragedy beyond belief. It is estimated that at least a million had died from it. But this is just a conclusion of how we leave the dangerous alone."

He gulped. He knew where this was going to go.

"We have been oppressed for too long! Too long! We must fight this battle! We must kill all of the royals! They aren't royals—no, they are not. They view us as—"

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on his breathing. If he gets too worked up, shit happens. Shit he doesn't want to happen.

His name is John, John Egbert. And he was once in a family of royals, as the announcer had called it. Until his family was murdered in the war, until the greedy demons— His name is John Egbert and he did not want to talk about it. He did not feel like going on a rampage. He did not want to get involved. But he will; he is living in Hell, from a family well known and well hated, and most of all a sheep hiding in the wolves' den.

John tried to control his breathing. Gently in, gently out. Let the air come through softly, not too rough. If he loses his control right now then he will hurt, hurt a lot. His lungs might explode from the pressure he builds up for himself for safety reasons, for reasons that are beyond his better judgment.

"—we must kill them all—" Shut up.

"—they are horrible. They deserve death—" Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

"—death is becoming of them. It's not like they—" Shut up. Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Quiet, quiet, hush the wind, hush the wind, don't, don't don't don't— wind, do not escape from his body. Do not escape—

"—in this district, we have yet one demon that could do this to us. His name is John, John Egbert."

With that, the message was over. His laptop went back to sleep. But he didn't notice; he didn't hear. He was too busy trying to control the storm within. As he was doing so, a knock came on his apartment door. Again, he didn't hear, he heard nothing. Nothing at all. The knocking was constant and as time passed on the knocking grew louder, as if hands were joining in. When it sounded like an army was there knocking on his apartment, through the door and walls, he heard. He finally heard.

"Go away, please," he said to the knocks. When he spoke, they grew louder and louder. He knew that beyond his apartment, beyond the doors and walls hiding him from the Underground, there were whole districts of demons waiting. Just waiting.

They wouldn't be able to come in, he knew this, and it was an unwritten rule among demons. Some supernatural power kept demons from entering other's house unless they were invited. The knocking was freaking out him, making his control over his powers override his common sense. The next time he breathed a strong wind came out of his throat, shattering his lungs, spilling his blood, his body shook, ready to explode with raw power.

His name is John, John Egbert. And he just became the wind.

* * *

><p>Wind. Wind is air and air can be very powerful. It can destroy, it can give life. It can do a lot of things, but right now it is protecting. In a sense, anyways.<p>

Wind howled into his house creating small sets of tornadoes and the like. His body was no more; he was the storm raging inside—but he was not raging; he was scared: scared to fight his monsters, scared to face the truth. He never really was strong enough to face his demons. Maybe that's why he turned out the way he is—but then again, one can only speculate on his behavioral patterns.

When the wind got too strong for his apartment, the walls, doors and windows were shattered completely. The demons that were rioting outside of his house came in knowing fully well that their target will not fight back; he never does. The first demon to try to come in first put out her hand. With a finger, she poked the inside of the apartment. She could go in if she wanted to, she could step in: the laws that bounded her outside of his house were no longer in existence because his home was destroyed. Destroyed, destroyed. No longer in existence, no, not anymore.

When her finger touched the outskirts of his home, the wind vibrated. It did so for a little bit leaving the other demons that were rioting to wonder what the hell was going on. The young lady who had done that stepped back, feeling the vibrations in her skin, crawling in every pore she had. And, with one final blow—pun intended—the wind was let loose throughout the whole district and then some, pushing the demons away. Far, far away, so far away to a place that they don't know of, or, more likely, to an angel they didn't know of.

When all was done, the said angel went over to the heart of the wind, not being phased by it and not being pushed away from it. _It was really easy,_ the angel thought. And the angel was right.

Once a person gets beyond the first set of wind, the outer wind, the inside air is more of a pillow. Fluffy, soft, not wanting to hurt but wanting to comfort—that was what the boy was. _Truly,_ this angel thought, _this boy was more pure than me._

His name was John, John Egbert. And he was wind. He immediately knew that an angel had come into his district, that an angel had passed his walls of storms. He didn't really put up any sense of resistance; he wasn't here to kill, to murder anyone. He was here to protect himself. Protecting himself without hurting others. Yeah, that was what he was doing. No matter how others viewed his way of life, that was all what he was doing.

The angel smiled, now in the heart of the wind. Her smile was soft but firm and John had no choice but to fall in love with it—falling in a love that was not based on the aspect of romance, but based on the feeling of family. Yeah, family. John thought of her as family. When she came closer John willed the wind to calm down, not really wanting to hurt the beautiful angel. Out of the chaos, he saw bright blue eyes, bright blue eyes that were a shade darker than his own.

And those dark sea eyes said to him,

"My name is Jane, Jane Crocker."

* * *

><p>Part Two: The main characters of Dark Light and Precious Time, Dork<p>

~Sight Light~

There's a road up ahead shimmering in gold

The road whispers gently to me that I do have to go.

Up ahead there are no storms, only the breeze of the amok

Snickering in mockery while telling me "good luck".

Fury then rests in me, my soul then going down;

This is what a voice looks like without its sound

~Missed Sight~

Depression slyly sinks through her skin, bathing her in unwelcome uncertainties. They chant, chant, and chant in her weak mind—though, it isn't really weak—to only watch her waste her time. The only path is straight; the only light is there when she closed her eyes. If she hides herself long enough, she will live in her own lie. But if she managed to do so, she will not get any better. The depression will eat her, eat her, eat her up, and she will….

Die.

Her name is Rose, Rose Lalonde. She is dead. Or at least she thinks she is dead. Or, at the very least, she feels like she is dead. She doesn't know; she can't figure it out. This is, in a way, outrageous—she is smart enough, has enough intelligence to bring anyone on their knees—she could figure out any problem that surfaces so she should know, know it all. But she doesn't know. The only piece of knowledge that she knows for sure is that she isn't what she was led to believe she was: a demon; and, also, she should be pretty much dead by now for living in Hell and, eh, NOT being a demon.

There's a reason for it, she was slightly positive about that, but…

But. She. Can't. Figure. Out. This. Problem.

This is very infuriating for her to go through. Thus the depression began, slowly sinking into her bones, forcing her to sit in through the days of her life, years of her life. There were so many questions piling up in her head, questions that weren't being answered, just mocked. And then one day, she found something that could answer most of her questions. When she figured out to use her power, she used it to her advantage. Unlike the other high standing families out there, her blood did not have pure strength, raw power. They had something else entirely: brains and eyes, eyes and brains.

Her name is Rose, Rose Lalonde, and she can see the future. Although her sight is rather confusing at times, and her brain can't understand everything that had happened, she is more well informed than the others in Hell. But still, even with her gift, all of her answers weren't answered-

-Which is really, really frustrating.

The Underworld is going to hell—pun unintended. Anarchy is upon them, death and destruction rides on their convictions. Rose, such a little girl at the time, saw it through her eyes. She saw everything. Saw how her birth went, how her death went. Which was confusing and irritating, really, really, irritating—how could her birth happen before she was in existence, how—

Rose shook her head. Now is not the time to be doing these things. Now is the time to panic.

"Rose, my darling, my flower, I am here for you, I am here, I am here, ready to take you, to take you away, to—" The voice croaked dryly.

The flower scoffed at the man, unimpressed.

"Tell me, flower, tell me, tell me, what do you see? I can protect you from those lesser than me—"

Rose knew that the demon could not protect her. She wasn't really in danger, anyways. The rebels wouldn't kill her; they wouldn't do that. No, even though they are incredibly stupid for being under a misconception for so many centuries, they wouldn't touch a hair on her head if she just mutters, "Ow." She was too important, too important! She had powers that they thought they could manipulate, that they thought they could control. But they couldn't grasp her power—she couldn't even grasp it yet.

The time is nearing, getting very close to her departure. Rose, the flower, can see little pieces of the future, so she would definitely know when she will be taken away from this place, whether it be from choice or not. Not like she had much of a choice, but who cares. Answers will come the sooner her departure comes. She just had to be patient, patient. Her time will come quickly, not as fast as the others, but it will come quickly. Faster than some of her…. Errr, she didn't know what to call them. Creatures that share…. A somewhat similar fate she will be led up to…? Just another thing that she couldn't grasp, she muses.

The flower lay in dark purple sheets in a bed that was more extravagant than the royalty of men—they were indescribable beauty that wrapped around her. Only the finest comes her way, the others around her made sure of it. There was incent in the oversized room as people bowed before her, muttering sweet nothings directed at her, which she just bluntly ignored. These demons were trying to get her to tell them something, something about this war. They wouldn't injure her body, but they could do a lot worse if she didn't comply with their wishes.

Words can be a very powerful tool, the flower learned in her early years. They can boast egos, deflate them, make others her enemies or friends, or just simply make them putty in her palms. It was interesting, very interesting, and as she grew she began to strike with words. It wasn't like she could strike with anything else, being as if she brought onto violence, nothing would happen. No acts of violence would come to her; no one would bring war upon her. Even if she did destroy a few demons, there would be more! Much, much more! They would still worship her; still invite her to the finest. So there was no point in acts of violence—well, not through her fists she guessed—so she came up with the next innovative solution: murder them with words.

Rose could do a lot with words.

"I fear thy mind coming undone; the flower will wither into the sun. The light that shines, the dark that thrives, I fear thy mind coming to life."

Her name was Rose, Rose Lalonde, and of course, she didn't have to speak in riddles when she gave others their fortune, but she did so anyways. It was more interesting that way, you assume. Your assumptions are usually right, so you don't dig any further for an explanation.

"The inch that speaks for a while will turn down for the next mile; the flower that speaks will be given to heaven, dance in the bunds that hire for nearly seven, excluding the master of the – "

She stops her speech. Got to have them on the edge of their seats, you see. If she doesn't make this dramatic, or at least a little sketchy, people will believe you are faking it. Which is totally absurd, but she saw it in her visions of the future. Have to give what the people want or the people stop wanting. Which, on her end, it would be a total loss; if they stopped wanting her, her cause for living would end, thus making her one of their targets of aggression. If she wanted to, she could use her words to guide them to her favored ending, but still, she wants this meeting to be—

Hush, hush. She doesn't want to give away any spoilers to herself. She hates spoilers.

"Show. Proceed with words that faintly glow." There. That was the end of her warning. If they succeed in figuring it out, which shouldn't be that hard, then they would and life would go on in this mundane world. If they don't, which she was a hundred percent positive that they won't—she saw it, remember that she can see things that others can't?—and they will be taunted by her words until death unites them, unites them into the void that is soon to come.

Speaking of the void, she should have already hacked into this pathetic system. With her skills, hacking anything comes naturally. Very, very naturally. Glancing at the clock, she counts down the seconds these demons have to live. One second, two second, three is their max. And that is when a black hole comes in the middle of the room, sucking in everyone but Rose, Rose Lalonde. They leave without a trace, without a trace of existence. Truly, she should feel sorry for those lost souls, but she doesn't have time right now.

She doesn't have time for anything, really, because she is going to be sucked up into the black hole, into the void of nothingness.

There are limits on how far she can see into the future, the limits usually being to what the universe wants her to know, the other limits being that others that were somewhat like you prevented it. She was in trouble, trouble that she couldn't fix—she didn't have the powers of violence like the others did. All she could do is have faith in her peers, if they even were her peers.

But to say that they were violent was the understatement of the year. As she thinks this, she falls into slumber, slipping down the black hole of nothingness, the void that could very well end your life like it never even existed in the first place.

But, before you sink completely, she sees a long, pinkish purple scarf. The person nears her, smiling while holding some sort of beverage. The person faintly whispers, but she hears it clear as day. And that is where she knows that she is saved. The person says,

"I am Roxy, Roxy Lalonde."

* * *

><p>~Last One~<p>

A world is molding before me,

Becoming into a dream.

They show me what I can be, but this is something

That I don't want to see.

The clock is ringing with my life,

Ticking with limited and reserved time.

I think of all what I was,

And then hesitate on what I'll become.

I can't believe the sight of time; it was here one second

And then it went blind, quickly

Forgetting that

It was

Mine

~Lost One~

It's that feeling you have, you say. It is that feeling you have, you know. You get the feeling sometimes, usually when you alone, but it goes so naturally that you can't fight it to stay. The feeling is fist subtle, gentle, but the more shows up the more vibrant it becomes in your emotions, in your heart. The feeling never lasts too long, though, and it usually only shows up when you are alone. Or, you don't like to think, it comes when you are in trouble.

Trouble. You are always in trouble. From the time you were birthed out of a species you clearly weren't to the time where, hell, you don't even know. Time is irrelevant, very irrelevant. Because, you know, you go anywhere in time that you want. Which is hella confusing, and takes up a lot of energy, but still, it is pretty gnarly. But because you can do that, you are always in trouble.

But right now you are in trouble for a different reason. You are in trouble because of your family, or that is what you would like to say. They have literally eaten their way through these demons, pushing them over and shit, and you told them, you told them, "Hey bruh don't do that shit, shit's like a typhoon waiting to suck a fucking tit, but the thing is the tit is so lax that it doesn't give a shit, but then it does because who wouldn't give a fucking shit when someone is biting their tit in the metaphorical way of a typhoon?" Yeah, that analogy wasn't your best, but you are sure that your meaning got through to them, but they decided that they wouldn't listen to you.

Oh look, there he is, Dave fucking Strider, almighty Time Lord and shit, oh god, he's never right. Don't listen to him, Dave fucking Strider!

Yes, your name is Dave, Dave fucking Strider. And you can control time. You have pretty good control over time if you're careful enough, which is like an A+ in your book, but whatever. It's like anyone will recognize your amazing A+ effort because, well, you're kind of hated. Like. A lot. And all because of your stupid family.

They crawl near in, deep into the shadows. They crawl so near, waiting to attack. Waiting, just waiting, for the perfect moment—if they didn't wait, they would be dead. Dead like the others before them that tried to kill you, but it is not like waiting out on the prey would fix their death sentence. Naw, bruh, naw. You keep your face devoid of emotions, ready to stop time at any given moment, as you too wait this out.

No need to get your panties in a twist; you wouldn't be able to ring it out because demons are after your fucking flesh 24/7, but whatevs. Whatevs. You have enough spare time to take it slow, go at your own pace or some cliché shit like that.

As they crawl in your shadows, you drink some of your amazing AJ. AJ is apple juice, you tell to no one. It's not like anyone is listening, so it didn't matter. You shrug. Not a lot matters to besides surviving matters to you.

The demons are nearing you. You think you should stop time, but now wouldn't be the right… Time. Heh. Puns. Ironic puns.

Enough screwing around! Heh, you like screwing around, giving some Davey love to the ladies, maybe some gentleman, fuck that shit you'd rather like it—yeah, enough screwing around; you should stay focused for once in your life. For. Once. In. Your. Life.

It's difficult. You can't focus on one thing. But here's an idea! Focus on multiple things? Let's hear your mind; let it be open in due time. You shrug your shoulders feigning disapproval, and then you close your eyes from your shades. Time to kick it, yeah?

Your brain is racing into so many directions right now. On to the left, your brain thinks about what you didn't have for breakfast. Oh bagel, how you love thee. On the left that is more right-ish, you think of how bright the sky is. Probably going to reach up over the hundreds, you say. Yeah. That'd be nice. And then here's this thought: you are going to die. Pretty soon. Yeah, that might be important, but for ironic purposes you just shrug it off. Yeah. Got to have that irony. You laugh, then think about how much fragment sentences you are building up. Totally ironic. Yeah.

After basically throwing up useless babble inside of your head, you calm down, sort out your thoughts, and turn down. No. You did not just break out in song and dance by saying "turn down for what". That is not like you, not like you at all.

Huh. Sometimes you wonder how you can still think. You mean, shouldn't there be a limit on how much a person can think? If so, you're a hundred percent positive that you went passed that limit and all the way back, bypassing the laws of the universe. You do that a lot so it doesn't really affect you as much as it used to. Oh well. You can just blame it on the irony. You always blame it on the irony.

You turn to the left. It's light out so everything is seen crystal clear, but for you it's a little darker. Since, well, you know, you are wearing ridiculous shades right now. But anyways, it is light out, you're wearing ironic shades, and you just turned left. Left is obviously the wrong way to go since well, you have a dead Dave right there. Right there on the ground. Woo is you.

Your name is Dave, Dave Strider, and you decide that you should be right for once in your life and go right. Pun. Intended. Hah. Maybe you should face palm yourself for that un-ironic statement.

You go right, you see another dead Dave. Whelp. Life sucks for you.

Life really sucks for you.

* * *

><p>It's dark now. The sky has come over to another lane, showing the depth of the darkness to you. You're tired as shit, feel like shit, and frankly couldn't care less about dying right now. It's getting old. You have never died so many times in one night; you have never seen so many dead Daves in one night.<p>

You swallow your dry mouth and then proceed onwards. Got to toughen it up.

After you suck it up, you ignore the feeling inside of you. It's growing, ever so growing, but yeah, you can ignore that. You can ignore a lot of things. So you do.

The feeling is like a tumor.

You jump, moving passed the dead Daves. Dead Daves creep you out. Dead Daves are weird. They are you, but dead. You mean, yeah, you collect dead things, but you wouldn't collect yourself. That would be weird, but ironic. You guess. Dead things were interesting, and when you die you would love it to have your collection grow, but you wouldn't want to be in your own collection. Every time you see another dead Dave, you get that feeling again. It's difficult to explain, but it is there. There with every other piece of junk feelings you have.

Then the dead Daves stop. So you stop as well.

When you stop, the feeling explodes. But as it explodes, nothing happens. Outwardly is just the same as it was a second ago, but inwardly the tumor has taken over your body. Like a puppet, you fall on the ground, and when you look up you see a god.

Or maybe he is an angel. Or maybe he is some weird, oddly realistic alien that has... No. Let's not go there.

His face is passive, gone away emotion, as he lifts up his fingers that are holding onto a lime green, a bright blue, a purple and a red string. He is definitely peculiar, but it wasn't like you had any right to judge; you thought about collecting yourself to further your collection of dead things, you weird little shit. You crinkle your nose, and then he says,

"My name is Dirk, Dirk Strider."

* * *

><p>AN

So I had this idea for a while now, and I couldn't work on anything else besides this, but whatevs.


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